When Dads Fail

My youngest son Camron, was only ten years old—and he was feeling bereft, because he’d lost all connection to his friends. His iPad was on the fritz, less than a year after we’d purchased it.

Camron had yet to dive into the electronic age as his classmates had done. Mostly he played outside with his dogs and cats, fed and chased his goats and bounced on the trampoline with his brother. But during the one hour per day when we permitted him to play games online with his friends, he grinned from ear to ear and laughed nonstop.

Now his iPad had quit working.

I was working night shifts in the hospital that week, and sleeping days. The nearest Apple store was ninety minutes away, just ten minutes from the nursing home where my father, Tato, lived.

“Daddy, can you pleath fixth my iPad?” Camron asked softly, lisping through his missing front tooth, as I lumbered up out of sleep to prepare for another night shift.

“I’ll take it to the Apple store next week, my off week,” I promised. “I’ll get it fixed on Monday, when I visit Dedo” (as he called Tato).

Camron stared at me with puppy-dog eyes, saddened by my inability to fix his iPad that very moment, then kissed my forehead with slobbering lips and walked out of my bedroom.

Next Monday arrived before I knew it. It was Easter Monday.

I drove the ninety minutes to see Tato, organize his medications, meet with his nurse and his healthcare aides and honor him as any good Macedonian son would do. I planned to spend the entire day visiting him, except for the Apple store appointment, which I’d scheduled during his lunchtime.

Tato had limited time left on this earth. He’d been enrolled in hospice only two weeks prior. My guilt at not calling or visiting him last week was tempered as he sat in his recliner, bundled up in his fleece blanket and slippers, fast asleep and snoring while I held his hand, watched M*A*S*H reruns and reminisced about my childhood.

I wanted to talk to him, with him. I wanted to hear more about his upbringing in the village of Nakolets, about his adventures on Lake Prespa. I knew that time was the enemy: I yearned to hear his stories one more time, so I could pass them on to my own children.

But these days he mostly slept. When we did talk, he barely recognized me; he’d forgotten that I’d been married for twenty years, and that I had four children (his grandchildren). With constant reminders, he’d realize that the year was 2017, not 1977. In between our conversations, he would get distracted, raise his Slavic voice and yell, “Zoran, you son of a bitch!” rolling his r’s and showering my face with saliva.

He’d never been formally diagnosed with dementia, but I was certain he suffered from it. It had reared its ugly head after his stroke, three years back, and it had only progressed since.

Before long, lunchtime arrived. Tato was awakened from slumber, our hands broke their sweaty embrace, and he was whisked in his wheelchair to the dinner table.

I kissed him goodbye and promised to return after my appointment. Minutes later, I sat at the Apple store Genius Bar, clutching my son’s iPad.

Just as the service technician approached, my phone rang. It was my father’s aide.

“Zoran, you need to come quickly!” she cried. “Your dad—he’s not well. He’s unresponsive. I’ve called the hospice nurse. Please. Come now!”

“Hi, how can I help you?” the technician asked.

I couldn’t breathe. Beads of sweat dribbled down my face. My heart pulsed in my throat.

“I…I…gotta go. My dad. He’s dying. I gotta go,” I whimpered, then ran out as the technician stood there speechless.

Fifteen minutes later, I stood at Tato’s bedside. He lay breathing erratically, his skin cold and mottled with purple. The hospice nurse was massaging his arms.

“Would you like to hold his hand?” she asked.

I crawled into Tato’s bed, held him in my arms and wiped the tears from my face.

“Could you please give us a few minutes?” I asked.

Tato’s head rested on my chest, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth; he remained unresponsive. I conference-called my brother (six hours away in Nashville) and my sister (nineteen hours away on the Florida Gulf Coast). I explained that Tato was unconscious and mottled, that his respirations were labored.

“Don’t let him go! I can be there in six hours, if I leave right now,” my brother exclaimed.

“I’ll catch the next flight to Columbus,” my sister whispered through tears.

“No! You won’t make it in time,” I said firmly. “Just love on your families. That’s what he and Mama would want.” My parents had always stressed to us that family love is everything.

I sat in the bed, holding Tato against my chest and rocking back and forth. His skin grew colder; his lips turned purple. Minutes later, his heart beat one last time, and he took his last breath, in my arms.

I stopped rocking. I just sat there, embracing Tato. His hospice nurse walked in, wiped the tears from my face, then wiped her own.

After an hour or so, I finally mustered the courage to call my aunts (Tato’s sisters) and my uncles, who lived nearby. They arrived quickly, and after the initial flood of emotions, they began their mission: to offer Tato a proper, honorable Macedonian funeral.

I met with Popo, our priest. He guided me on the traditions, expectations and necessities of such funerals; but mostly he counseled me and consoled me. He advised me to leave, to go home and embrace my wife and children. Then he hugged me.

I jumped into my car and began the drive home. But before getting onto the highway, I stopped at a Men’s Wearhouse to buy Tato a new suit, new shoes, new socks and a new tie in which to be buried, as my aunts had advised. Because that’s what you do in our culture when someone dies—instead of grieving, you go shopping! Tato was about to reunite with Mama, after all.

“So what’s the occasion?” the salesman inquired, ringing up the sale.

“A celebration,” I responded timidly, smiling halfheartedly as a tear dribbled down my cheek.

I drove down the highway, then pulled over at a rest stop to call my wife and tell her that Tato had passed, and that I’d be home late.

I arrived home around 11 that evening. My wife and Camron were asleep on the couch. My other three boys were fast asleep in their respective bedrooms. I leaned over and kissed my wife on the forehead, trying not to startle her.

Before I could kiss Camron, he awakened, rubbed his eyes and excitedly inquired, “Dad, did you fixth my iPad?”

Later that evening, I sat by the fireplace. Absorbing the heat from the flames, I reflected on the sad truth that the invincible father I’d known all my life was gone. And I reflected on the irony that, by choosing to be with my father in his final hour, I’d inevitably failed to keep my promise to my son.